A Dose of Deadly Intentions Read online

  A Dose of Deadly Intentions

  A Dunnhill Mystery

  Lucia N. Davis

  Orange Vine Publishing

  Copyright © 2020 Lucia N. Davis

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Editing by Leah Wohl-Pollack (Invisible Ink Editing)

  Cover Design by Ebook-coverdesigns

  Published by Orange Vine Publishing

  To Francine

  For always having my back

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Afterword

  Acknowledgment

  About The Author

  Books By This Author

  Chapter 1

  Darkness covered the Bay Area by the time Sara finally parked her car, five blocks away from her apartment in San Francisco’s Marina District. The Oakland Bay Bridge had been illuminated like a Christmas tree when she crossed it, celebrating her return to the city like some long-awaited homecoming. If only she could feel the same exuberance.

  Sara turned off the engine, annoyed by the prospect of walking all the way to her one-bedroom apartment. She hoisted herself out of her seat and slowly stretched her tall frame. Deeply inhaling, she took in the cold, moist air that had rolled in with the fog. It had been a while. She could almost feel the pressure mounting in her brain, the memories trying to rush back in, barely contained by some mental barrier—like a dam close to its breaking point. The last part of the drive had been difficult, to say the least.

  Trying to focus on other things, she shifted her attention to her legs; the skin felt tight from sitting too long. Her bladder, disturbed by all this sudden activity, protested with force. Abruptly she slammed the car door shut, grabbed her bag out of the trunk, and started to walk.

  The building she used to live in, which housed several units, was nothing special. It was painted an unpretentious, boring beige and, tucked in between more colorful abodes as it was, failed to grab anyone’s attention. The only features it had going for it were its large bay windows and its location. After a brief fight with the front door, until she remembered the lock was quirky and you had to pull on the door while turning the key, Sara managed to let herself in and went up the one flight of stairs to her apartment. She stood in front of her apartment door for the first time in more than a year. How quickly time passes. Until last month, the place had been sublet to some girl named Chelsea. According to David, it was the perfect time for Sara to let go of her lease, and although she was hesitant, she had to agree that holding on to the apartment made little sense. Especially now that the rent was going up.

  She opened the door and hesitated briefly before stepping inside, bracing herself for the flood of memories—they were breathing down her neck now, so close—but nothing came. She shrugged and threw her bag on the sofa.

  Exhausted from the long ride, she plopped down on the couch, shaking her long blond hair loose. She surveyed the familiar room, which, without her belongings, looked bare and impersonal. She had been so excited when the opportunity had come along for her to rent a place in this coveted neighborhood, despite her meager income. The owner of the building had been a friend of her father’s, the low rent a favor. But as prices were going through the roof in the Bay Area, the owner had little incentive to keep Sara at her current price for much longer, especially with her subletting the place to someone else.

  At least Chelsea had kept the place clean. Leaning into the pillows, Sara closed her eyes. Her mind wandered to Dunnhill, the old mining village in the Northern Cascades that she had left only yesterday. Then to David. They had been dating for nine months now, after meeting in Dunnhill. She had retreated to the little town—the place David called home—after her parents both died instantly in a brutal car crash.

  With that thought, the memories Sara had been pushing out forced their way in swiftly, surprising her. Covering her face with her hands, she focused on her breathing. It had been a little over a year and a half ago, but the pain was so real, the longing so deep. This was why she had left San Francisco—to avoid the constant reminder. Biting her lip, Sara pressed her clammy fingers to her forehead. She should have known running away wouldn’t solve anything. At some point, she would have to deal with this.

  Feeling in desperate need of a shower, she picked up her bag. The small bathroom was not much to look at, but at least it had hot water. As the water pelted her body, she imagined her grief washing away down the drain. If only it were that easy.

  Later, with wet hair, dressed in a robe she did not remember owning, and nursing a steaming mug of hot tea, Sara made her way back to the lumpy couch. Her stomach growled, and she retrieved a granola bar from her bag. The kitchen cupboards were disappointingly empty.

  She checked her phone; David still had not responded to her text informing him of her safe arrival. A thickness formed in her throat, making it hard to swallow. She laid the half-eaten bar aside. A familiar loneliness came creeping in, building up until it overwhelmed her. Despite having lived in San Francisco for many years, she had no real friends to hang out with. Just an ex-boyfriend and mutual ex-friends that turned out to be mostly his.

  As she stared across the room, a yellow square drew her attention. An envelope with a Post-it note stuck to it was sitting on top of the shelf next to the front door. Maybe from Chelsea? Their communication had been sparse and mostly by email. Curious, Sara left her seat.

  Hey Sara,

  This came in the mail. Not sure what to do with it, so I left it for you.

  Take care,

  Chelsea ☺

  Sara grimaced at the big smiley face next to the subletter’s name. The happy emoji did not exactly reflect Sara’s emotional state at the moment. The letter had been sitting here for a month, if not longer. What if it was something important? She flipped the envelope over to read the return address.

  Jean Wilford, Sacramento, California. “I don’t think I know anyone named Jean,” she mumbled.

  She peeled off the Post-it note. It looked like the letter had been forwarded. The original address was crossed out, with Sara’s San Francisco address written neatly next to it. As she read the original address, the room started spinning. Madelyn Eriksson, the original address began. Not Sara Eriksson. Madelyn.

  The envelope fell out of her hand.

  She steadied herself with a hand against the door. The noises from the street faded far away to the background. As she looked down at the envelope, a big lump replaced the previous thickness in her throat. Someone had written her mother and did not know she had di
ed. Her parents’ house in Los Angeles had sold well over a year ago. Aunt Shelley, her mother’s younger sister, who lived in Seattle, had been taking care of the mail. It wasn’t impossible that the new owner of her parents’ home had Sara’s forwarding address as well.

  With some apprehension, she took the envelope and set it on the coffee table. For minutes she sat there, staring at the letter, fiddling with some damp strands of hair. She knew she should open it. Pulling herself together, she tentatively tore open the envelope.

  The envelope contained a handwritten letter. Slowly, she unfolded it.

  Dear Madelyn,

  I’m not sure if you remember me. My name is Jean Wilford. We met briefly at your mother’s funeral, six years ago, to which I accompanied my mother. Our mothers were second cousins. We talked a little about our ties back then. Our great-grandmothers were sisters: your great-grandmother, Julia, was the youngest sister of my great-grandmother, Theresa. There was a middle sister as well—her name was Alice.

  My mother, bless her soul, passed away a while ago, and as I was cleaning up her basement I came across a box filled with old letters sent to Theresa, who lived in Washington, D.C. with her family. The letters are from Julia and the middle sister Alice, who both lived in San Francisco. Unfortunately, many letters were damaged by age and moisture, with only a few still legible. Those that were in good condition, I have scanned in on my computer—I can send them to you by email if you’re interested.

  I love family history, though I know it’s not for everybody. I have been able to contact a great-great-granddaughter of Alice as well. I have no children of my own to share these letters with.

  Let me know if you are interested in seeing the originals. Below you will find my contact information. I look forward to hearing from you.

  Sincerely,

  Jean Wilford

  Sara let out a big breath—at least this wasn’t a friend unaware of her mother’s death, someone she would have to call and break the news to and be forced to listen to sobbing tales of lost childhood friendship. The initial shock faded a little, leaving some space for Sara’s curiosity to stir. Letters from her great-great-grandmother. She vaguely remembered the family tree Aunt Shelley had shown her a year ago. There had been a Julia Conners, a great-great-grandmother on her mother’s side.

  The family connections mentioned in the letter confused her. Jean’s mother and Sara’s grandma were second cousins. What was Jean to her then? She shrugged. Too far removed, obviously. No wonder their families lost touch. She remembered her grandmother's funeral, but did not recall meeting Jean. There had been so many people.

  She would contact Jean, of course. The family tree had been important to her mother, so this was not something she could ignore. She did not know her ancestors had actually lived in San Francisco. What a funny coincidence.

  Lazily stretching her arms, Sara yawned. The long car ride had taken its toll. She should really get some rest. It took her a while to find a comfortable position on the old mattress, which had developed new sags and bumps in her absence. In the distance, the foghorn blew at regular intervals, echoing over the bay. How many nights she had listened to that sound while falling asleep—too many to count. It seemed so long ago now, yet the sound was still familiar and soothing—it almost made the place feel like home. Almost.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning, Sara woke to the harsh sound of cars crashing into each other, metal bending metal. Loud screaming penetrated her head. Clapping her hands over her ears, she looked around, disoriented, at first not recognizing her surroundings. Slowly it came back to her. San Francisco—she was in San Francisco. With the sound of the accident still ringing in her ears, she got out of bed, the feeling of desperation sinking in. She had been here for less than twenty-four hours and already her nightmares had returned, forcing her to relive the horrible event she was trying so hard to forget. Moving to Dunnhill had helped with the anxiety, and these nightmares. She snorted softly. Her move had certainly triggered other sleep disturbances. Come to think of it, she wasn’t quite sure which type of sleep deprivation she preferred; both were troubling, in their own way.

  Twenty minutes later, she stepped outside into a cold and grey city. Her stomach was growling, and she couldn’t stand another granola bar. Thoughts of pastries and coffee lured her into the Peet’s across the street, where she parked herself at a table with a scone and a cup of hot coffee. Sipping carefully so as not to burn her mouth, she wrote an email to Jean on her phone, asking for a copy of the letters.

  Her phone beeped, flashing with a text from David, asking her how San Francisco was. She hesitated, and finished up her email to Jean. For a boyfriend, David sure took his time replying and making sure she was all right. Her mind wandered back to the surprising phone call she had received yesterday during the drive. She had said yes to the invitation, of course—it was not an opportunity she wanted to miss out on. Besides, the chances of it working out were minimal.

  She decided not to mention it to David. There was no point in upsetting him.

  San Francisco is chilly, she texted back.

  The reply came quickly. Don’t stay too long then, it’s warm here!

  She concentrated on her scone for a while. Want to talk? she typed, when nothing else came from his end. It irritated her that he did not ask more about how she was doing. She was still a bit miffed he had not answered her last night—she had driven all the way to San Francisco and he had not even waited up to see if she had arrived safely.

  Later. Can’t now. I’m pretty busy.

  Sara looked out the window. The day loomed endless and lonely before her. David was swamped with work; he was a real estate agent and had many things going on this week. The market was booming. She respected that he was making a living—in fact, he was much more successful at earning money than she was. But still she resented him a little for not even offering to come to San Francisco with her for support. It seemed she was always running to him, making the concessions, and never the other way around.

  They had been dating for a while now, and for the most part it was great. He was funny, considerate, handsome—tall, with strong shoulders, a quick smile, kind eyes—she could go on and on. He really was quite perfect… at least close to it. Their chemistry together could light up a room. Theoretically they each had their own place, but they spent almost every night together anyway. She sighed, her body humming with electric currents as images of David crossed her mind.

  Her phone started ringing, dragging her out of her daydreams. She was a little disappointed to find that it was not David calling, but Aunt Shelley, her mother’s younger sister.

  “Hello, dear!” her aunt’s cheerful voice exploded from the phone.

  “Hi, Aunt Shelley, how are you?” Sara said, not nearly as enthusiastic.

  “I’m well, thank you for asking. How are you?”

  “I’m all right. I’m in San Francisco right now, actually.” No point in hiding it. Her aunt would figure it out; she had a nose for these things.

  Her aunt was quiet for a moment. “Really? How come? Is David with you?”

  “No, I’m here to take care of the apartment. I drove down by myself. David had to work.”

  “Did he now? And you thought it was a good idea to drive all the way to San Francisco alone?”

  Sara knew that tone. Aunt Shelley disapproved—strongly. “I need to do this,” she said. “And I need to be down here to do this. Besides, these are my demons to slay, not his.”

  “Demons? Is that what you call them? I prefer to think of it as unresolved trauma. But I agree you should deal with it, sweetheart.” Her voice was softer now. “Maybe you shouldn’t have to do it alone, though.”

  Sara didn’t answer. The silence stretched out for a while. Then she said, “He doesn’t know.”

  “He doesn’t? I see. Then maybe you should ask yourself why you haven’t told him.”

  Desperate for a change of subject, Sara told her aunt about the letter J
ean had sent. As expected, her aunt, fascinated with anything related to their family history, was easily diverted from the earlier conversation.

  “Julia Conners, you say? My great-grandmother?” Aunt Shelley asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Interesting! I don’t recall any information on her, other than that she died in 1906.”

  “Wow, you remember that? I’m impressed!”

  “Don’t be. I’m looking at the family tree right now,” Aunt Shelley said. “Apparently she was born in 1877 and died in 1906. But that’s all the information I have. Your mother did most of the research.”

  Sara thought about this. “1906… There was a big earthquake in the Bay Area that year. If she was still in San Francisco at that time, I wonder… She was only twenty-nine years old. Just like me.”

  “Far too young. Let’s not dwell on that,” Aunt Shelley responded. “Well, who knows. Back then life was very different, I’d imagine. I could try to find out more about her, if you like? Your mother left a family file—I’ll dig through it.”

  “That would be great. Thanks! And I’ll send you a copy of the letters when I get them, so you can add them to the file.”

  “Wonderful! My goodness, look at the time, I have to go. Take good care of yourself, my dear. And please call if you need anything? Or if you just want to talk?”

  “I will. Thank you! We’ll talk soon, Aunt Shelley. Give my love to Uncle Joe.” She put down the phone. Aunt Shelley really was a sweetheart.

  Sara’s phone pinged again. Jean had responded to her email. Sara quickly scrolled through the reply. To her disappointment, there were no letters attached to the email. Jean was at work; she would try to send them tonight. She offered Sara her sincerest condolences, as well as an opportunity to meet up. As it turned out, she was going to be in San Francisco this week for a medical conference and had already set up a lunch with one of Alice’s great-great-granddaughters. Sara was welcome to join them.